THE STEAM-DOCTOR.
To return to the house of Samuel Anderson.
Scarcely had August passed out the door when Mrs. Anderson fell into a
fit of hysterics, and declared that she was dying of heart-disease. Her
time had come at last! She was murdered! Murdered by her own daughter's
ingratitude and disobedience! Struck down in her own house! And what
grieved her most was that she should never live to see the end of
the world!
And indeed she seemed to be dying. Nothing is more frightful than a good
solid fit of hysterics. Cynthy Ann, inwardly condemning herself as she
always did, lifted the convulsed patient, who seemed to be anywhere in
her last ten breaths, and carried her, with Mr. Anderson's aid, down to
her room, and while Jonas saddled the horse, Mr. Anderson put on his hat
and prepared to go for the doctor.
"Samuel! O Sam-u-el! Oh-h-h-h-h!" cried Mrs. Anderson, with rising and
falling inflections that even patient Dr. Rush could never have
analyzed, laughing insanely and weeping piteously in the same breath, in
the same word; running it up and down the gamut in an uncontrolled and
uncontrollable way; now whooping like a savage, and now sobbing like the
last breath of a broken-hearted. "Samuel! Sam-u-el! O Samuel! Ha! ha!
ha! h-a-a! Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h! You won't leave me to die alone! After the
wife I've been to you, you won't leave me to die alone! No-o-o-o-o!
HOO-HOO-oo-OO! You musn't. You shan't. Send Jonas, and you stay by me!
Think--" here her breath died away, and for a moment she seemed really
to be dying. "Think," she gasped, and then sank away again. After a
minute she opened her eyes, and, with characteristic pertinacity, took
up the sentence just where she had left off. She had carefully kept her
place throughout the period of unconsciousness. But now she spoke, not
with a gasp, but in that shrill, unnatural falsetto so characteristic of
hysteria; that voice--half yell--that makes every nerve of the listener
jangle with the discord. "Think, oh-h-h Samuel! why won't you think what
a wife I've been to you? Here I've drudged and scrubbed and scrubbed and
drudged all these years like a faithful and industrious wife, never
neglecting my duty. And now--oh-h-h-h--now to be left alone in my--"
Here she ceased to breathe again for a while. "In my last hours to die,
to die! to die with, out--without--Oh-h-h!" What Mrs. Anderson was left
to die without she never stated. Mr. Anderson had beckoned to Jonas when
he came in, and that worthy had gone off in a leisurely trot to get the
"steam-doctor."
[Illustration: "CORN-SWEATS AND CALAMUS."]
Dr. Ketchup had been a blacksmith, but bard work disagreed with his
constitution. He felt that he, was made for something better than
shoeing horses. This ambitious thought was first suggested to him by the
increasing portliness of his person, which, while it made stooping over
a horse's hoof inconvenient, also impressed him with the fact that his
aldermanic figure would really adorn a learned profession. So he bought
one of those little hand-books which the founder of the Thomsonian
system sold dirt-cheap at twenty dollars apiece, and which told how to
cure or kill in every case. The owners of these important treasures of
invaluable information were under bonds not to disclose the profound
secrets therein contained, the fathomless wisdom which taught them how
to decide in any given case whether ginseng or a corn-sweat was the
required remedy. And the invested twenty dollars had brought the shrewd
blacksmith a handsome return.
"Hello!" said Jonas in true Western style, as he reined up in front of
Dr. Ketchup's house in the outskirts of Brayville. "Hello the house!"
But Dr. Ketchup was already asleep. "Takes a mighty long time to wake up
a fat man," soliloquized Jonas. "He gits so used to hearin' hisself
snore that he can't tell the difference 'twixt snorin' and thunder.
Hello! Hello the house! I say, hello the blacksmith-shop! Dr. Ketchup,
why don't you git up? Hello! Corn-sweats and calamus! Hello! Whoop!
Hurrah for Jackson and Dr. Ketchup! Hello! Thunderation! Stop thief!
Fire! Fire! Fire! Murder! Murder! Help! Help! Hurrah! Treed the coon
at last!"
This last exclamation greeted the appearance of Dr. Ketchup's head at
the window.
"Are you drunk, Jonas Harrison? Go 'way with your hollering, or I'll
have you took up," said Ketchup.
"You'll find that tougher work than making horseshoes any day, my
respectable friend and feller-citizen. I'll have you took up fer
sleeping so sound and snorin' so loud as to disturb all creation and the
rest of your neighbors. I've heard you ever sence I left Anderson's, and
thought 'twas a steamboat. Come, my friend, git on your clothes and
accouterments, fer Mrs. Anderson is a-dyin' or a-lettin' on to be
a-dyin' fer a drink of ginseng-tea or a corn-sweat or some other
decoction of the healin' art. Come, I fotch two hosses, so you shouldn't
lose no time a saddlin' your'n, though I don't doubt the ole woman'd git
well ef you never gin her the light of your cheerful count'nance.
She'd git well fer spite, and hire a calomel-doctor jist to make you
mad. I'd jest as soon and a little sooner expect a female wasp to die of
heart-disease as her."
[Illustration: "FIRE! MURDER!! HELP!!!"]
The head of Dr. Ketchup had disappeared from the window about the middle
of this speech, and the remainder of it came by sheer force of internal
pressure, like the flowing of an artesian well.
Dr. Ketchup walked out, with ruffled dignity, carefully dressed. His
immaculate clothes and his solemn face were the two halves of his stock
in trade. Under the clothes lay buried Ketchup the blacksmith; under the
wiseacre face was Ketchup the ignoramus. Ignoramus he was, but not a
fool. As he rode along back with Jonas, he plied the latter with
questions. If he could get the facts of the case out of Jonas, he would
pretend to have inferred them from the symptoms and thus add to
his credit.
"What caused this attack, Jonas?"
"I 'low she caused it herself. Generally does, my friend," said Jonas.
"Had anything occurred to excite her?"
"Well, yes, I 'low they had; consid'able, if not more."
"What was it?"
"Well, you see she'd been to Hankins's preachin'. Now, I 'low, my
medical friend, the day of jedgment a'n't a pleasin' prospeck to anybody
that's jilted one brother to marry another, and then cheated the jilted
one outen his sheer of his lamented father's estate. Do you think it is,
my learned friend?"
But Dr. Ketchup could not be sure whether Jonas was making game of him
or not. So he changed the subject.
"Nice hoss, this bay," said the "doctor."
"Well, yes," said Jonas, "I don't 'low you ever put shoes on no better
hoss than this 'ere in all your days--as a blacksmith. Did you now, my
medical friend?"
"No, I think not," said Ketchup testily, and was silent.
Mrs. Anderson had grown impatient at the doctor's delay. "Samuel! Oo!
oo! oo! Samuel! My dear, I'm dying. Jonas don't care. He wouldn't hurry.
I wonder you trusted _him!_ If you had been dying, I should have gone
myself for the doctor. Oo! oo! oo! _oh!_ If I should die, nobody would
be sorry."
Abigail Anderson was not to blame for telling the truth so exactly in
this last sentence. It was an accident. She might have recalled it but
that Dr. Ketchup walked in at that moment.
He felt her pulse; looked at her tongue; said that it was heart-disease,
caused by excitement. He thought it must be religious excitement. She
should have a corn-sweat and some wafer-ash tea. The corn-sweat would
act as a tonic and strengthen the pericardium. The wafer-ash would cause
a tendency of blood to the head, and thus relieve the pressure on the
juggler-vein. Cynthy Ann listened admiringly to Dr. Ketchup's
incomprehensible, oracular utterances, and then speedily put a bushel of
ear-corn in the great wash-boiler, which was already full of hot water
in expectation of such a prescription, and set the wafer-ash to draw.
Julia had, up to this time, stood outside her mother's door trembling
with fear, and not daring to enter. She longed to do something, but did
not know how it would be received. Now, while the deep, sonorous voice
of Ketchup occupied the attention of all, she crept in and stood at the
foot of Mrs. Anderson's bed. The mother, recovering from her twentieth
dying spell, saw her.
"Take her away! She has killed me! She wants me to die! _I_ know! Take
her away!"
And Julia went to her own room and shut herself up in darkness and in
wretchedness, but in all that miserable night there came to her not one
regret that she had reached her hand to the departing August.
The neighbor-women came in and pretended to do something for the
invalid, but really they sat by the kitchen-stove and pumped Cynthy Ann
and the doctor, and managed in some way to connect Julia with her
mother's illness, and shook their heads. So that when Julia crept
down-stairs at midnight, in hope of being useful, she found herself
looked at inquisitively, and felt herself to be such an object of
attention that she was glad to take the advice of Cynthy Ann and find
refuge in her own room. On the stairs she met Jonas, who said as
she passed:
"Don't fret yourself, little turtle-dove. Don't pay no 'tention to ole
Ketchup. Your ma won't die, not even with his corn-sweats to waft her on
to glory. You done your duty to-night like one of Fox's martyrs, and
like George Washi'ton with his little cherry-tree and hatchet. And
you'll git your reward, if not in the next world, you'll have it
in this."
Julia lay down awhile, and then sat up, looking out into the darkness.
Perhaps God was angry with her for loving August; perhaps she was making
an idol of him. When Julia came to think that her love for August was in
antagonism to the love of God, she did not hesitate which she would
choose. All the best of her nature was loyal to August, whom she "had
seen," as the Apostle John has it. She could not reason it out, but a
God who seemed to be in opposition to the purest and best emotion of her
heart was a God she could not love. August and the love of August were
known quantities. God and the love of God were unknown, and the God of
whom Cynthy spoke (and of whom many a mistaken preacher has spoken),
that was jealous of Mrs. Pearson's love for her baby, and that killed it
because it was his rival, was not a God that she could love without
being a traitor to all the good that God had put in her heart. The God
that was keeping August away from her because he was jealous of the one
beautiful thing in her life was a Moloch, and she deliberately
determined that she would not worship or love him. The True God, who is
a Father, and who is not Supreme Selfishness, doing all for His own
glory, as men falsely declare; the True God--who does all things for the
good of others--loved her, I doubt not, for refusing to worship the
Conventional Deity thus presented to her mind. Even as He has pitied
many a mother that rebelled against the Governor of the Universe,
because she was told the Governor of the Universe, in a petty seeking
for his own glory, had taken away her "idols."
But Julia looked up at the depths between the stars, and felt how great
God must be, and her rebellion against Him seemed a war at fearful odds.
And then the sense of God's omnipresence, of His being there alone with
her, so startled her and awakened such a feeling of her fearful
loneliness, orphanage, antagonism to God, that she could bear it no
longer, and at two o'clock she went down again; but Mrs. Brown looked
over at Mrs. Orcutt in a way that said: "Told you so! Guilty conscience!
Can't sleep!" And so Julia thought God, even as she conceived Him,
better company than men, or rather than women, for--well, I won't make
the ungallant remark; each sex has its besetting faults.
Julia took back with her a candle, thinking that this awful God would
not seem so close if she had a light. There lay on her bureau a
Testament, one of those old editions of the American Bible Society,
printed on indifferent paper, and bound in a red muslin that was given
to fading, the like whereof in book-making has never been seen since.
She felt angry with God, who, she was sure, was persecuting her, as
Cynthy Ann had said, out of jealousy of her love for August, and she was
determined that she would not look into that red-cloth Testament, which
seemed to her full of condemnation. But there was a fascination about it
she could not resist. The discordant hysterical laughter of her mother,
which reached her ears from below, harrowed her sorely, and her grief
and despair at her own situation were so great that she was at last fain
to read the only book in the room in order that she might occupy her
mind. There is a strange superstition among certain pietists which loads
them to pray for a text to guide them, and then take any chance passage
as a divine direction. I do not mean to say that Julia had any
supernatural leading in her reading. The New Testament is so full of
comfort that one could hardly manage to miss it. She read the seventh
chapter of Luke: how the Lord healed the centurion's servant that was
"dear unto him," and noted that He did not rebuke the man for loving his
slave; how the Lord took pity on that poor widow who wept at the bier of
her only son, and brought him back to life again, and "restored him to
his mother." This did not seem to be just the Christ that Cynthy Ann
thought of as the foe of every human affection. She read more that she
did not understand so well, and then at the end of the chapter she read
about the woman that was a sinner, that washed His feet with grateful
tears and wiped them with her hair. And she would have taken the woman's
guilt to have had the woman's opportunity and her benediction.
At last, turning over the leaves without any definite purpose, she
lighted on a place in Matthew, where three verses at the end of a
chapter happened to stand at the head of a column. I suppose she read
them because the beginning of the page and the end of the chapter made
them seem a short detached piece. And they melted into her mood so that
she seemed to know Christ and God for the first time. "Come unto me all
ye that labor and are heavy laden," she read, and stopped. That means
me, she thought with a heart ready to burst. And that saying is the
gateway of life. When the promises and injunctions mean me, I am saved.
Julia read on, "And I will give you rest." And so she drank in the
passage, clause by clause, until she came to the end about an easy yoke
and a light burden, and then God seemed to her so different. She prayed
for August, for now the two loves, the love for August and the love for
Christ, seemed not in any way inconsistent. She lay down saying over and
over, with tears in her eyes, "rest for your souls," and "weary and
heavy laden," and "come unto me," and "meek and lowly of heart," and
then she settled on one word and repeated it over and over, "rest, rest,
rest." The old feeling was gone. She was no more a rebel nor an orphan.
The presence of God was not a terror but a benediction. She had found
rest for her soul, and He gave His beloved sleep. For when she awoke
from what seemed a short slumber, the red light of a glorious dawn came
in at the window, and her candle was flickering its last in the bottom
of the socket. The Testament lay open as she had left it, and for days
she kept it open there, and did not dare read anything but these three
verses, lest she should lose the rest for her soul that she found here.